Just a Sip
by triniti71
Summary: A look into the mind of Haymitch as to what started him on the path of alcoholism and his recovery.


**_Just a sip_**

_Just a sip_, he thinks. To forget. To bury the past. To ease the pain. Haymitch. He, then a tribute, now a victor. So many dead, yet here he stands. Alive. He feels empty, without a soul. "How do I forget?", he breathes.

_Just a sip_, he thinks, pouring the bitter liquid into the glass. Time has passed, yet the nightmares remain. He survives, but so has the torment, the pain. A fate worse than death if you asked him, but there is no choice but to continue on. Ushering the next year's children to their own hells, their own torments, their own deaths. The way he was ushered to his. Because he is dead, or at least it feels that way to him.

He trains them, gives them a fighting chance, equipping them with the necessary skills to survive. He coaches them. He prepares them. But _still_ they die. " Damn it!", he starts as he recounts watching them, one after another fall….

Fall victim to arrows, knives, swords, mutts, snakes, jabberjays, water, ice, heat, cold, fever, poison, hunger. Hunger. The Hunger Games. Every year. Every year, the same thing.

Haymitch stares at his now empty glass. Every now and then he needs a glass. Just one glass, not too often. Maybe once a month he feels the overwhelming need to indulge himself in the blessed liquid of forgetfulness. Just one glass, to hold him over so that he doesn't disappear into the deep, dark abyss of his own sorrow. That warm liquid that cools his nerves and puts his mind to rest. He doesn't want to become the drunkard that the Victors usually become, disgracing themselves in their attempt to drink away the past or into a quick and deserved death. The death they previously evaded in the arena. He produces an annoyed huff as he contemplates something. 'It's getting harder to be satisfied with _just_ the one glass'.

_Just a sip_, he thinks, as he reaches for a glass, yearning to fill it with the liquid salvation. Many more years have passed. Hopelessness has overcome him. The years of _faithful _servitude have weighed him down. Diligently training these children. So much hope he had for them. _Wasted! _They all die. They _always _die. Desperation, coupled with his own sense of uselessness, takes Haymitch, leaving room for nothing else. But "_the Drink_". His hands twitch. Soon, he is off again, in search for _the_ _cure._

_Just a sip_, taken with drunkenness, he staggers on the train towards the counter. He swipes the bottle from its resting place, ejecting the cap with swift precision, flinging it from his sight. His new shirt quickly becomes splattered with the cool liquid as he swigs it straight from the bottle. He has long ago put away the notion of controlling this _necessary_ indulgence of his. He has long ago surrendered all control to the bottle. Haymitch takes another long swig of the bitter liquid, squeezing his eyes shut, determined not to open them until he has downed at least half of the wretched bottle, until he has eradicated the screams in his head, the visions of their blood soaked bodies hitting the ground. Their dead eyes looking straight at him, searching his empty soul, through the huge screen. Finally, no longer able to stand it, he crumbles defeatedly to the ground. His knees, after so many years of supporting the heavy load buckle, no longer able to carry the weight of such heavy emotional and psychological burdens. His head is still raised, his eyes still tightly shut. Drained of all energy, Haymitch can no longer support the bottle raised to his lips. Though he still hold the bottle to his lis, he has long ago stopped drinking it. He lets his arm now heavy with the bottle drop down to his sides. Haymitch, heavy with sorrow, is unconcerned as the cool liquid pours out of the bottle at his side, soaking his newly bought pants, as it spills out onto the plush, white carpeted floor around him.

Effie, hurriedly as always, walks into the room and stops abruptly upon seeing him on the floor. His back to her. He could tell it was her by the clanking of her heels in the ha. At the moment he did not posses the energy to acknowledge her, let alone get himself up from his kneeling position on the floor. Within a couple of seconds of having walked through that door, he had heard her frustrated sigh then quickly exit the way she had just seconds ago come. Haymitch was grateful that she had entered through the door behind him and not through the other door in the front of the compartment. As she could not see the tears. The tears, that now flowed freely down his once youthful face.

_Just a sip_, he thinks, now reaching for the bottle. It's his second one today, and only noon. It's almost a joke to him now. He can no longer be bothered. He can no longer recall the time when it had mattered. _Had it ever? _This year would be particularly humorous. A volunteer and the baker's boy. Haymitch no longer even tries, hasn't for many years.

_Just a sip_, he thinks. So that he can relax. He pours the liquid into a glass. He has had to cut back quite a bit recently. _These_ tributes are different. He finds himself entertaining their questions, probing for tips. He has been here before. '_Don't be a fool Haymitch' _he thinks '_Better not to hope'._ He has no doubt, they will die like all the rest.

_Just a sip_, he thinks. He drinks the bitter liquid slowly, not really interested in it. He has been busy lately. These tributes are different. He decides to gives it a small effort. '_Might as well train them so they can at least stay alive a little longer_' he thinks to himself.

_Just a sip_. A relatively small sip. He hasn't had one in a couple of hours. He has ventured out among the masses to procure some potential sponsors. It has been so long since he has performed this part of this duty as mentor. Years, since he did this. He sits bored as the conversations around him continue. These people with their costumes and weird hair. Even after all the years coming here to the Capitol, it still struck him how odd these people were. He has a headache and yearns for nothing more than to finish this unpleasant business and make a quick exit, where he could shut out the noise, the chaos, the monotony. He hated it all. He preferred the silence, away from these dreadful people, who's asses he always had to kiss.

Haymitch sits back, ready to close his eyes and take a nice nap, when something catches his slightly closed eyes. He straightens up, turning his head slightly to the left. There, he sees a little boy no more than eight years old unwrapping a present his father had just presented him with. His mother and presumably little sister also at his side. The joy on his face was evident, after discovering the sword and casting the wrapping to the floor. Haymitch, scrunches up his face, disapproval written all over it, but he continues to watch. The boy, to Haymitch's horror, quickly turns on his sister, a sinister look in his eyes as he proceeds with great enthusiasm to chase her around, with the intent of pretending to killing her, while her screams fill the air. This was their game.

A sense of boiling rage and injustice rose up in him. He is so filled with disgust that he can hardly see straight. These privileged children. They would never know the real terror of being in the Hunger Games, of watching other children around you die, slaughtered at the hand of other children. These parents never had to know the horror of watching their own children die in the arena. They would never experience it, so they minimize it. Even though they watched it every year, the reality was so vague to them, that they allowed, maybe even taught their children to play these games, with their fake, plastic toys. The reality set into Haymitch, like a solid punch in the gut. It was all a _game_ to them. A game. A real game. And it _could_ be a game to them because they would never have to participate in this game, where mere children were sent out into an arena to be slaughtered like animals for sport. These mere children, left in an arena to play a game of life or death. It was trivial to them. Haymitch, filled with disgust, turns away from the appalling sight. An attendant comes around and asks him if he wants her to refill his drink…

Haymitch declines.


End file.
